Poem: The Streets are Gold, My Heart is Cold

English: walks on the moon.

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There he walks,
the lonely man who
hoists his cerulean jacket over his shoulder
as he walks under the denim skies.
Cars drive by as he walks along the dark, voluptuous streets.
He crosses at a zebra,
and he looks back at me.

We say nothing as we have nothing to share.
I decide not to stare, for it is rude
–I turn my eyes up to the clouds,
I search for the moon, but it remains hidden.
I see tall buildings, abandoned buildings.
I also see air conditioning pipes which lead
to chimneys coming out of the street.
The chimneys ejaculate flagpoles for the nearby hotel,
and keep its parking space real cool.

US flags, European Union flags, Finnish flags, Spanish flags,
Italian flags, French flags, and the Union Jack.
They are all there standing tall by the hotel,
the same way the lonesome man stands near me.

He looks tall, and proud.
Looks like a face that nothing would hold down,
but there’s a few words stuck in his eye.

They say, Listen:

My home is cold,
My bones are cold,
The sky is cold,
Her heart is cold,
Life is cold. My heart is cold.

He crosses to the other side of the street,
and I am alone.
I ask myself will the lonesome man find his way home?
The wind whispers, no.


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